


Translation

by Molly



Category: Coldfire
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash, Spoilers, Yuletide, coldfire - Freeform, end-fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I believe this day past may have been the most peaceful I've ever spend in your company, Vryce," Gerald said lightly into the quiet. "It's been pleasant, if somewhat unnerving."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Translation

  
 

   


In the realm of snow and madness

In the heart of the mountains' fastness

In the cathedral of ice and stone

The broken priest slept -- and sleeping, dreamed and remembered.




  
 

   


_\--howled down from the peak of Mount Zenai with the fury of a thousand thwarted winds, ice and wolves flung before it. The wolves were dispatched easily enough, weak as they were with cold and hunger. The ice was another matter and it held him in its teeth, slowed him in mind and body until _they_ came, came by the hundreds, the storm's true children._

Needle-sharp, grasping, constructs of glassine eyes and fur, one part frigid nightmare and one part killing wind. They fell before his heat-Worked sword, purchased with the blessing and credit of his Church -- still, ever and always,

his_ Church. The fear-spawned creatures of mist and chill that were their kin also fell, dissipating as his blade swung through them. The battle warmed and exhilarated him, and he advanced, cutting into their ranks with easy efficiency until he realized, far too late, that the battle had lured him far from shelter, or from any hope of finding it._

And still they came. Wave upon wave, crystalline laughter shattering into the wind, until even the Fire in his sword failed, until he pressed back against a granite ledge slicked with ice and the wind tore the very breath from his throat--

Damien's body jerked convulsively, fighting a death that no longer threatened. Physical confusion overwhelmed him -- _warm. Warm?_ \-- and he fought the blankets that bound him, the gentle hand that pressed him down and soothed him.

"Lie still," a voice commanded with such complete authority that his limbs acquiesced before his will had the chance. "You fell into a chasm; you broke your left leg and sprained your left wrist, but luckily, you took the worst of the impact with your head. When you're feeling stronger, I'll ask if you feel any more addled than usual."

Damien lay back against soft furs, frowning at the high arch of stone above him. A fire, away and to his right, threw bright yellow sparks toward the natural roof. Carefully, he moved his fingers and his toes, pleased when they responded with only slightly less vigor than usual. The sharp flood of pain from his left hand made Damien flinch, and drew a soft snort from his companion.

"How did I get here?"

"You lived," the other man said dryly. "Despite your best efforts to have it otherwise."

A vague body-shape passed between Damien and the fire, barely more than a moving silhouette. Moments later an arm slipped behind his shoulders and helped him lift his head. A mug was pressed into his good hand; gently, it was guided to his mouth. Warm steam ghosted over his face, the scent of heavily sweetened tee. He drank, tipping the mug back until the last drop was gone.

"There," his rescuer said, clearly pleased. "I can't hold you down and set your leg at the same time, but that should no longer be a problem."

"You drugged me," Damien said wonderingly. He felt distinctly -- but distantly -- concerned. "What did you give me?"

"A fighting chance," the voice said quietly, from very far away. "You might say I'm returning an old favor."

  
   


* * *

  
   


A faint howl of wind roused him much later, slowly, so it seemed he'd been following its tone for long minutes before he became aware of being awake. The fire still blazed away in its makeshift hearth, and this time the smoke carried the hot, thick scent of roasting meat. Damien's mouth watered, and he raised up on one elbow to investigate.

His companion perched on a rock beside the fire, slowly turning a spit. Damien didn't want to think of what manner of creature might have survived the peaks with enough flesh on its bones to sustain them, but he wasn't fastidious enough to care. Certainly not when the alternatives were snow and fae constructs. The latter had a disturbing tendency to melt away into the aether before one could eat them.

He studied his rescuer from his blankets, grateful for the quiet moment to discover what manner of man had saved him from the ice and his own foolhardiness. Dark hair fell down his back and over his shoulder, straight and shining. His face was hidden, turned toward the flames, but Damien could see a smooth curve of jaw outlined in the firelight. His clothes were practical but well-made: butter-soft leather over a fine wool shirt dyed a deep green. While Damien watched, he flicked a long lock of hair over his shoulder with an economical, practiced gesture that seemed oddly familiar.

Whoever he was, he had saved Damien's life as surely as Damien had tried to throw it away. This cavern, this fire, this space for quiet contemplation and reflection was a reprieve Damien never could have expected. His curiosity was another kind of reprieve; a respite from the grey film of apathy that had stolen over him in the three longmonths since the Forest burned.

The flames that had destroyed the Hunter's domain had also consumed Damien's sense of purpose, set him at odds with the modern world. He had mourned where his Church rejoiced, and missed like a lost limb the sorcery mankind never should have had. He'd felt old, anachronistic; a relic of Erna's youth, discarded now that she was finally growing up.

With distance, he could see that the apathy had merely shielded him from the truth of his own despair.

A stirring reminded Damien that he was not alone. The man at the fire rose and turned, his face finally clear in the shifting light. He looked at Damien with dark eyes and the barest hint of a smile, so slight Damien might have thought he'd imagined it, if he hadn't known what to look for.

But he knew. For two years, and longer, he'd known.

"I can't tell if I'm dreaming, or finally coming awake," Damien said softly.

"You're awake enough," Gerald Tarrant replied, in the cool dry tones Damien had thought he'd never hear again. "What took you so long?"

  
   


* * *

  
   


Gerald Tarrant. Changed, in every way the eye could see. In every way the mind could grasp, absolutely the same. The soul behind those eyes -- dark now, silver lost when the Forest burned -- was unmistakably the same. Damien wasn't sure when the layers of corruption Tarrant had worn like a shield against mortality had become transparent, letting him see only the strength and will of the man beneath, but surely that corruption was still there. Surely a thousand years of murder and torture could not be erased by the mere chance of salvation. _But I can't see it now. I can't remember when I did. Has he changed so much...or have I?_

For long moments while the fire's light played shadows across the cave's walls, questions battered at the backs of Damien's teeth and he didn't dare draw breath. Silence lengthened between them, broken only by the snapping of sparks in the makeshift hearth. What could he say, when even the barest expression of gratitude would resonate with long-owed thanks that could never be offered? _I could kill him with a word. How can he stand before me so easily?_ But Gerald Tarrant had only feared one thing, in all the time Damien had known him. _And it certainly wasn't me!_

"I believe this day past may have been the most peaceful I've ever spend in your company, Vryce," Gerald said lightly into the quiet. "It's been pleasant, if somewhat unnerving."

Carefully, Damien said, "You have me at a slight disadvantage."

"As ever. Still, a simple hello shouldn't do any harm my presence here hasn't done already. Or did you honestly believe I was simply in the neighborhood?"

"Ask me again when I've had a chance to think anything at all. When I was praying for my life out on the ledge, I was thinking more along the lines of a ray of sunlight through the clouds, or a burst of heavenly Fire. I hardly expected _you_ would show up instead."

"It seems old habits die hard."

Several replies came to mind, none of which Damien could offer without delving into dangerous areas. Instead, he glanced toward the cave's entrance, hidden in the shadows. "How did you find me?"

"You had fallen into a small chasm, barely a fissure in the ice. I doubt you retain any memory of it, as you were insensible with cold and exhaustion. If I had to guess, I'd say you attempted to kill every coldwraith in the Dividers in a fit of nihilistic martyrdom."

"Not _every_ one," Damien protested mildly. "Just all the ones in this particular area."

"Typically," Gerald said, "you very nearly succeeded; those that didn't fall had fled by the time I reached you. If fae could feed on fae, this valley would be littered end to end with Vrycewraiths within the week."

"Nihilistic martyrdom is a great motivator," Damien said dryly.

  
   


* * *

  
   


Gerald fed Damien generously and supplied him with warm tee by the bucket, spiked with something strong and sweet that made him tired and took away most of the pain. Gradually, the memory of ice gripping his bones faded. Warmth, improbable as it was in a cave of ice and stone, crept into his limbs. He slept often throughout the day, waking to the howl of wind beyond the cavern's entrance, waking when Gerald roused him to eat and drink. When he had to relieve himself, an adventure he hadn't been looking forward to, Gerald lent his own body as a crutch. Together, they hauled Damien to the entrance and back, his right leg weak from two days of bed rest, his left completely useless. Gerald politely pretended not to notice what they were there for, and Damien politely pretended not to be amused by the pretense.

When he woke next, night had fallen. The intensity of the dark beyond the fire's reach had not changed, but the fire had burned low, and Gerald had joined him. The length of his body pressed warmly against Damien's side, and Gerald's fingers rested lightly against the pulse in Damien's throat. Another's physical presence, so close, was new and strange, disconcerting. Gerald had a scent -- wood smoke, sweat, soap -- and his fingers were soft, without callus. The combination of warmth, comfort, and companionship was dizzying. Damien could feel breath against his skin, a heated, humid rush.

When his heart sped, Gerald stirred, rising to his elbows to examine Damien's face, half in shadow.

"Pain?" he asked softly, pulling his hand away.

"No," Damien replied. His voice was low and hoarse. "Not pain."

  
   


* * *

  
   


Morning brought no change in the light, but the sound of the wind was muffled and distant. The fire had been reawakened and blazed brightly nearby, the heat almost too intense. Damien struggled to sit up among his blankets, wincing only slightly when the movement jarred his splint. He felt exhausted, as if he'd run for miles, but his head was clear and the drowsiness that had buffered him for days now had receded.

He was alone.

"Great," he said to the cave, fighting back rising panic. Too many times in the past, Gerald's unexpected absence had served as a dire warning of even more dire events to come. "He's wandered off and left me to die."

"Tempting, but hardly likely at this late date. I was seeing to the structural integrity of our doorway. It suffered somewhat, during the night."

The voice echoed from the cavern's entrance, and moments later Gerald emerged from the small tunnel connecting it to their current residence. Ice and snow dusted him from head to foot, glittering in his hair and on the fur that lined the hood of his cloak. Something like humor gleamed in his dark eyes.

"Gerald," Damien said. His heart thudded in his chest, a stuttering beat of relief and welcome. There was no way to mistake the warmth that gripped him for anything other than what it was: affection, simple and pure, rooted deep in soil that never should have nurtured it. He smiled, felt it break over his face like a cresting wave, almost reached out --

And then stopped, his heart seizing in horror at what he might have done.

"Wait -- I didn't --"

Gerald's eyes flashed in the firelight. "Your concern is touching -- if somewhat belated," he said dryly. "If my contract held here, your enthusiasm would have resulted in an extremely abbreviated reunion."

Damien said nothing. He wasn't sure what he could say, which words might be safe and which words might condemn.

"Fortunately, the terms of my arrangement don't seem to apply to you." The wry twist of Gerald's mouth implied that he was not surprised to find even the natural forces governing Erna's new Pattern making exceptions on Damien Vryce's behalf.

"How can that be? If anyone could be said to connect you to your old life --"

"Two things only of my past were granted to me. From almost a thousand years of life, two things only could I retain. The first -- books. My notes on the Iezu, on other demon species, on the Fae. That was less gift than assignment, as I am expected to make proper use of them in the service of mankind." The last was said mockingly, with a sneer Damien knew all too well.

"You've such burdens," Damien said dryly. "What was the other?"

Tarrant's green eyes were cool. Distant. His face was carefully blank. "That under certain circumstances, and in such ways as do not compromise my...arrangements...I might answer my obligations to one man." He paused, and looked away. "One friend."

"Gerald." Damien looked at him. Just looked, anchoring himself against the sudden sensation of falling.

"There is absolutely no need to wax maudlin over it. That you have, and have had, my respect cannot possibly come as a surprise to you."

Damien shook his head, starting to smile. "Everything that has happened in the past two days has come as a surprise to me, but this? You, saying something about our...relationship? Our friendship? _Out loud?_ I think I may need another cup of tee, just to steady my rattled nerves."

"At your service," Gerald snapped out icily, making Damien's grin even wider, and went to fetch the pot. Damien had a moment to examine the stiff, straight line of Gerald's spine, the fine tremor in his hand as he gripped the steel cup, before that cup was shoved into his hands, sloshing boiling liquid over his fingers.

Damien hissed and dropped the cup, spilling its contents over the blanket covering his legs. He cursed through clenched teeth as Gerald whipped the blanket off him and used a dry section to blot at Damien's hands.

"Snow," Damien gritted out. It would cool his hands and prevent blistering, if Gerald moved fast enough.

But Gerald said, "No." He closed his eyes and took both of Damien's hands in his. "Wait."

"Gerald, I like the skin on my hands. I like being able to touch things without leaking on them. I'd appreciate it if you could --"

"I would appreciate it if you could close your mouth, Vryce, and keep it closed for more than five seconds at a stretch. I have some minor skill with emergency first aid, in case it has escaped your notice. Please allow me to work."

Damien closed his mouth, but his eyes had opened wide. The tone of command, Gerald's voice -- such a strange, unfamiliar voice -- was as familiar to Damien as his own. For a moment it overwhelmed him, the past showing through the thin overlay of the present; Gerald's eyes gleamed silver, not this deep, bottomless brown; his skin was pale, translucent, not dark and warm as honey. His voice was smooth, light, woven thick with faeborn power -- not this rough, deep, _human_ clash of concern and exasperation.

And still, Damien recognized every part of him.

"What was the price?" he asked softly, gazing at Gerald across their joined hands. "What was my price?"

The man started, eyes snapping up to Damien's. For a moment, Damien thought he might have made it through, might have touched something inside of Gerald that would have compelled an answer. But the moment passed, and whatever weakness Damien might have sensed passed with it. Gerald withdrew his hands.

"That doesn't concern you."

"Gerald --"

"Suffice it to say that the price was mine to pay, and I paid it willingly. An end to it. The subject is not up for discussion."

Damien sighed. The color of the eyes might be different, but the wall behind them was hauntingly familiar. There would be no moving past it; not now. Not before Gerald was damn well ready.

"All right," Damien said. He waited while Gerald fetched snow from the cave's entrance, probably too late now to keep blisters from rising. _Between the two of us, I'll be a pile of frozen cinders by week's end._

When Gerald returned, Damien said, "If you won't tell me why it works, perhaps you could tell me how."

For a moment, Gerald was silent, brushing snow over Damien's hands with utter concentration. The skin beneath began to redden and sting immediately. Damien clenched his teeth.

"My apologies," Gerald said. He glanced up at Damien's face, a faint smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "My bedside manner has grown rusty with disuse."

"'Rusty' is a bit kind," Damien hissed.

Gerald's smile widened, almost imperceptibly. Damien could only see it because he knew exactly what to look for. "You were saying," Damien prompted, knowing full well Gerald hadn't been saying anything at all.

Gerald's smile faded; the rise of his shoulder became a shrug. "I did warn you, some months ago, that the channel we opened between us would have consequences reaching far beyond a few hours' crawl up the side of an active volcano."

Cautiously, Damien said, "You said it would last until death."

"And perhaps beyond. Apparently, in the eyes of my new...benefactor...the channel between us renders us indivisible and, therefore, indistinguishable."

"I haven't felt...wouldn't I have known?"

"Were I still a creature who feeds on humans -- and were I capable of feeding on orgiastic self-pity," he added dryly, "I have no doubt you would have become aware of the link again, as I have. It seems to gain in strength when you're attempting suicide by fae construct."

"I haven't been trying to kill myself," Damien snapped. "In case you hadn't noticed, I've been trying to make myself useful with the skills I have left. Jaggonath isn't exactly littered with job opportunities for ex-sorcerors -- or ex-priests, for that matter."

"Saving the world, one ice-wraith at a time. You used to think on a slightly grander scale."

"No, _you_ used to think on a grander scale, Gerald. I -- _shit_."

"Stop that." Gerald knelt beside Damien and ran a hand lightly over his fingers, checking for blistering with a careful touch. His eyes were intent, missing nothing in their examination.

Damien's eyes widened. "Can you See?"

"Yes."

"Can you Work?" Damien held his breath.

For a moment, it didn't seem that Tarrant would answer. His eyes were shuttered, his mouth still and set. Damien had long enough to wonder what it must be like, to see the currents, the fae, but never to touch. Never to alter or shape. He had time to regret the question and the pain it must have caused before, in a low, cautious voice, Gerald said,

"Yes."

  
   


* * *

  
   


It was too much. Confusion, jealousy, anger, _relief_ \-- Damien stared at his hands -- at Gerald's hands on his -- and couldn't find breath to voice a single question. The answers didn't seem to matter. He was trapped in a cave with a resurrected sorceror, the last true Adept -- the one man on Erna who could still affect the fae and live to tell about it -- and it didn't seem impossible at all. It seemed _inevitable_. The laws that applied to mere mortals had never applied to Gerald Tarrant, and so of course he could See, of course he could Work. No rule fashioned by God or man had ever bound him.

"You don't seem surprised."

"That you, alone among millions, have found a way to subvert the will of the planet itself? To defy the Pattern that you yourself imprinted upon it?" Damien grinned crookedly and tightened his grip on Gerald's hands, then let go. "Not particularly, no."

"Your faith is touching," Gerald said, sounding distinctly untouched.

"Yeah. I can tell."

"There is...more."

Damien looked at Gerald sharply. The man -- the _Adept_ \-- refused to meet his eyes directly. It was uncomfortably reminiscent of past evasions, all of which had resulted in last-minute escapes from certain doom that would scar Damien's psyche for life. "Tell me," he said darkly, his eyes narrowing.

"I have no certainties to offer. Only theories."

"Tell me anyway," Damien suggested dryly.

"I may have built the Pattern, but it was the blood of your Patriarch that cemented it. I made Working difficult; he made it impossible. Believe me, if I could have excluded myself without negating the terms of my sacrifice, I would have. Whatever sorcery set me outside the parameters of his sacrifice was accomplished by a Power greater than mine."

Damien closed his eyes and groaned. "You can't be serious."

"Someone on Erna," Gerald persisted, "someone or some_thing_, arranged for my abilities to remain intact in the face of sacrifices that changed this world forever. Arranged for _us_ to remain intact, despite the terms of my bargain. Can you honestly feel safe anywhere on Erna without knowing its intentions?"

"I could a minute ago," Damien muttered.

"I can See and I can Work," Gerald said bluntly. "I can also Heal, if you'll allow it. I've done what I can to relieve the pain while you slept, but I've met the limit of my abilities without your assistance. In this area I am...somewhat out of practice. With your help, we can be free of this infernal cave in a day's time and safely out of the mountains within the week."

Damien stared at Gerald in wonder. "You bastard. You haven't changed in the slightest. _You_ can't feel safe on Erna without knowing its intentions. You didn't follow me to save me from myself -- you can't do this on your own, so you followed me to _recruit_ me!"

"And in typical fashion, you've made it much more difficult than it had to be," Gerald said, glaring. "One moment of inattention, and I find you've hied off to frozen Hell to make a picnic of yourself for a horde of demonlings too far from civilization to harm anything but wolves and jackrabbits. You're as a much a fool as you ever were, Vryce; if I hadn't hauled you out of that chasm, you'd be far too dead to question my intentions in doing so."

"So sorry to trouble you with my crisis of faith," Damien said sharply, hurt more than he cared to acknowledge.

Gerald's eyes blazed with anger. "You didn't have a crisis of faith. You had a crisis of self-worth, which in a thousand years of life is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of."

"That almost sounds like a compliment." Damien shook his head, pushing aside the hollow ache in his chest, pushing aside everything but anger. "Careful, or I'll think you actually give a damn about me."

"If you think otherwise," Gerald snapped, "you haven't been paying attention."

Damien's breath caught in his throat, and whatever he might have said  
next vanished as the words penetrated.

"I'm here," Gerald said into the silence that followed. Simply, quietly, as if it were the last argument left to him. "Think, Damien. In all the world, where else would I go?"

  
   


* * *

  
   


Lunch was quiet, the way the sky is quiet at the eye of a storm. Damien watched Gerald eat from across the fire, captivated by that simple affirmation of change. Of life. It was another surprise around another blind curve in the complex relationship between them: the strange fascination of white teeth cutting through meat and stale bread, of slim fingers gleaming with grease in the light of the fire. Gerald was _alive_; not in the abstract, not in some far, unknown corner of the world. _Here_, face flushed with heat and true warm blood, pumped by a healthy, human heart. Damien was awed by it, his faith buoyed up by it; no creature, natural or demonic, could have worked such a change in such a man. If Damien believed anything at all, he believed that in this, the One God of Erna had looked after His own.

_Thank you, Lord,_ Damien prayed, humbled again by the incomprehensible depth of love required to offer the Hunter this one bare chance at redemption. _Thank you for his life, and for mine. May we spend these gifts in your service, with honor and faith._

"If you're praying for a change in menu, I'm afraid you're out of  
luck," Gerald said, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Consider yourself fortunate that they're on ours, rather than the reverse."

Damien smiled. No argument had ever brought the Hunter's soul a hairsbreadth closer to God, but the work debate could not do, Damien's presence in his life had long ago begun. It seemed it was his fate to drag Gerald Tarrant ever further down the path to his own salvation; thankfully, it was work Damien was eminently suited for. He bit into his wolf sandwich in reply to Gerald's questioning look, chewing with a will and no small share of smugness.

Whatever else had changed in his translation, the Adept was still a consummate hunter; his skill, despite the manner in which it was acquired, stood firmly between Damien and death by certain starvation. After two days, he could wish for something other than wolf for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but he valued his own skin too much to ever say so out loud.

When the meal was completed and the few dishes scoured with snow and put away, Damien asked Gerald for assistance to the mouth of the cave. It hadn't escaped his notice that, even trapped in a cave by a blizzard and a crippled ex-priest, Gerald remained well-scrubbed and clean-shaven. Nothing could be done about the blankets that had warmed him since his rescue, but a quick snow-bath and a shave could at least remove the source of contamination.

As before, Gerald granted him the illusion of privacy while he took care of his most immediate needs. When he reached past the leather barrier that served as a makeshift door, however, and grasped a handful of snow, Gerald pulled him back and glared in irritation.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," Damien said lightly by way of explanation. "I thought --"

"You might have asked," Gerald said, and before Damien could speak he was engulfed.

He couldn't see it. He could only feel. A flush of live energy washed over him, encasing him head to foot and whirling round him like a desert wind. His clothes, his hair, his skin, all were abraded with crawling, scouring heat for the space between one heartbeat and the next.

And then the wind died, the heat faded, his clothes and his hair stilled. His skin was red, everywhere he could see it, and smelled vaguely of citrus and spices he couldn't name.

Damien stared at Gerald in awe that was partly horror. "I haven't been this clean since I was born."

Raising a single, elegantly arched eyebrow, Gerald Tarrant said, "Trust me. I know."

  
   


* * *

  
   


The blankets received the same treatment, much to Damien's relief. He wasn't sure he could have borne them otherwise, in his disinfected state. Gerald brought water -- the snow was good for something, at least -- and pulled Damien's bedding closer to the fire.

When he was settled, Gerald dropped down beside him, cross-legged. "Is there anything else you require?"

"A moment of meditation."

"Or prayer?"

Damien smiled. "Or both."

He closed his eyes. The fire blazed redly through his lids, banishing true darkness. With the ease of long practice, Damien searched for that part of himself most deeply rooted, most connected to the world outside. Grounded, centered, he let his mind drift while his body sank deep into relaxation.

From a distance, Gerald's voice eased into the quiet surrounding him. "When you're ready."

"I'm ready," Damien said.

With a sense of utter peace, he felt something deep inside him click softly into place.

  
   


* * *

  
   


"Open your eyes," Gerald suggested. "_See._"

Damien Saw:

A world alive with light and fire. It pooled on the floor, raced up the walls to the pinnacle of the ceiling above. It _sang_, the earth fae, sang with life and power, _Workable_ power. Damien gasped with recognition, with relief, with despair at what he had lost and what he had finally, through Gerald Tarrant, partially regained.

A man, shining like a dark sun, brilliant and wild. It broke his heart to See the darkness, the taint, though he'd known it must be there; it wounded him, in a way no Healing could ever touch. But the darkness was not complete, was not malignant and hungry, sucking at everything it touched; fire rose within it, shadows of varying depth and color. Sparks drifted, brighter than any star. The transition was staggering, the potential. Damien's heart stuttered within his chest, filled with awe at this evidence of boundless _possibility_ encapsulated in one man's blinding spirit.

"Find the injury," Gerald said. His right hand brushed against Damien's fingertips, a tactile reminder of his burns; his left settled gently over the break in Damien's leg.

"I can See it." Damien's voice was thin, breathless; he gripped Gerald's hand in his own, completing the circuit.

Gerald's hand tightened. "Then come with me," he said softly. "We have Work to do."

  
   


* * *

  
   


Inside, alight; deeper, drawn into Gerald so far he could barely sense himself as a separate soul. They drove themselves into resisting flesh, into slow, unyielding cells, deadening pain before Damien could feel it, breaching the scarlet realm of blood and shattered bone. The damage took shape before them, around them, and as one they took its measure. Persistence of memory guided them, flowing easily between them -- knowledge that must have been Damien's, but which felt native to both inside the link that bound them inextricably together.

Together. They breached cellular walls and plunged into the hearts of nucleii, forcing them to work faster, to knit, to mend. Damien's pulse ebbed and flowed around them, a slow, irresistible pattern; they meshed with it, let it lead them. What Damien knew, Gerald knew as well; what Gerald Worked, Damien Worked through him. This was the strength Gerald had denied them before, this concert of skill and power that drained and uplifted at once.

Damien felt a stab of pain for Jenseny, nearly lost in the Black Lands, lost forever in the keep of their undying Master. Damien had Healed alone that day while Gerald killed the tendrils of death that coiled through her fragile body, Working together but infinitely, immeasurably apart. Gerald recoiled from that pain but couldn't escape it, and Damien couldn't shield him from it, not here. Not in this blinding, limitless space that was no space between them.

And so Gerald changed it. He tore it away, and gave it back to Damien as regret and dismay; gratitude, dark and alien but true, for the child who had saved them. The child who had succeeded where they could not. It was a gift and an apology at once, born of memory and sorrow.

Coiled together, souls bound by their link and their Work, there could be no dissembling, no misunderstanding. Damien accepted what was offered gladly, as he accepted the man who offered it.

As one, they put Damien back together. Under their guidance, driven by their power, Damien Healed.

  
   


* * *

  
   


"Sorry," Damien said, gasping for breath, fighting against the dizziness dragging at the edges of his mind. "Sorry -- I didn't mean --"

"It's -- all right." Even in the firelight, Gerald's face was paler than it should be. His eyes were wide, wild, whites showing around their edges. "It was...unexpected."

"You're the only person alive who knows what she gave up for us. For this world. And then you died, and I thought I'd never be able to share the -- the magnitude, the --"

Gerald's hand clenched around Damien's; it was almost a convulsion, only no relaxation followed. "I understand."

Damien nodded, not letting go; lending comfort, where he could. He hadn't thought, hadn't realized his own disordered emotions had such power to overwhelm. It was one thing to slowly pick one's way back from utter damnation, flexing the soul like a wasted, atrophied muscle; it must be quite another to be immersed, brain first, in an ex-priest's love and gratitude for a martyr to his cause. Gerald's face had settled into a taut mask, giving away nothing, but the link between them still resonated with confusion and discomfort.

"I'm sorry," Damien said again, helplessly. He brought his free hand up to Gerald's face, clumsily stroking the angles outlined by the fire. His hands were whole, his body was whole, but while this man beside him hurt, he felt diminished. "You gave everything for this world, for _me_, and I thought you were lost to me forever. It wasn't fair, Gerald, don't you see? It wasn't _right_ \--"

"I'm not lost," Gerald said roughly. He released Damien's hand and took his face instead, hands molding themselves to the curve of his jaw. "I'm not lost," he said, breath warm and unsteady against Damien's mouth, "and neither are you."

  
   


* * *

  
   


The first brush of Gerald's mouth was a physical shock, a buzz of unfettered energy, as much pain as pleasure in the liquid slide of lips and tongue. There was no space for surprise or hesitation, no line to divide desire from action. Gerald's body fell against Damien's in a riot of angles, planes, textures that shattered any hope of control.

Damien's hands had shifted before he could form the intention, pulling at Gerald's shoulders, his hips, his thighs. The kiss was Gerald's, a sucking, biting, liquid thing that brought Damien to a trembling, dizzying state of readiness; the rest was Damien's, and he took it, his hands pushing clothes aside, desperate for the warm press of Gerald's skin against his own.

Every point of contact was a blaze of heat and light, a connection born of mind as much as body. The mouth on his was hot, driving -- unnerving in its vicious determination. Damien tasted blood; felt the moan against his tongue before he heard it, and gave himself up to Gerald's need without the slightest hesitation. It was indistinguishable from his own, passed between them like the fierce, drugging kisses.

Gerald's hands were fine; soft, smooth, flowing over Damien's skin like water. The strength in those hands was greater than he would have expected, greater than he could have hoped for, and he sank beneath them willingly, pressed down into the dark warmth of the blankets. His shirt was unbuttoned, pulled apart across his chest, and then Gerald's mouth was there, his tongue tracing a hot, wet line over Damien's collarbone and down to curl around the hard point of his nipple.

"Gerald," Damien breathed, staring blindly up at the shadows of the ceiling. He was seeing with his hands now, calluses catching against the fine grain of Gerald's skin. "Please, touch me..."

"_Yes_."

Fingers curled tightly around him and stroked, stopping the world. Pleasure, blinding and intense, stole his breath. Gerald's mouth settled into the curve of his throat, suckling heat to the surface, and Damien's body curved around the touches, shuddering. His hands roamed aimlessly, twisting in silk, sliding beneath, drawing gasps from Gerald as sweet as the touch of his tongue.

"Let me," Damien said through clenched teeth, and fumbled with laces between them, baring Gerald to his touch. The first stroke pulled a cry from Gerald's throat that Damien couldn't help but match; he freed a hand to pull Gerald up and bit gently at the pulse in his throat, the wild uneven beat of life throbbing beneath his tongue. "Let me do this," he whispered, "just like this," and tightened his hand around Gerald's hardness, drove his tongue into Gerald's mouth, tasting heat and darkness. Every stroke was answered, every gasp returned to him, intensity building between them in flesh and mind until Gerald pulled back, drew in a shattered breath, said,

"_Damien_,"

against his lips, against his throat, bit the word into his shoulder with sharp white teeth and drove against him in a blinding rush of liquid heat that overtook Damien, overcame him, twisted his body around the shock of pleasure that arced through him and left him with neither breath nor sense to breathe.

Above him, Gerald sprawled as if he hadn't bone or brain left in his body. His breath ebbed and flowed against Damien's chest, slowly calming. Aftershocks of sensation shuddered through Damien's body, dissolving any desire to move ever again.

"This is the most insane thing we've ever done," Damien said softly, wrapping his arms around Gerald's limp body and burying a hand deep in the fall of his hair, black as night and fine as silk. "And that's saying something."

Gerald's -- eyes closed, breath deep and even with sleep -- pressed the last fading trace of a smile into Damien's chest, and said nothing.

  
   


* * *

  
   


When Damien came awake, hours or months later, a sense of deja vu washed over him along with the heat from the fire. He was alone in his nest of blankets, flat on his back, while Gerald crouched beside the fire, turning the spit above it. If he hadn't been half in his shirt and half out of it, sticky and sated and not at all displeased with either state, he might have thought time had reversed itself.

"I trust you slept well," Gerald said without turning. "You certainly slept long enough."

"Hey, I had kind of a busy evening, if you recall." Damien grinned at Gerald's back, taking note of the curve of his spine, and other curves as well. "Not all of us are a thousand years old, going on twenty."

Gerald faced him, mouth set in a thin, firm line. Because he knew what to look for, Damien could read a flicker of worry in the tilt of his head, the shadows beneath his eyes. "True Night falls tonight, for long enough to make travel a risk. There's no guarantee of shelter within the range of half a day's travel."

Damien shoved his blankets aside and rose. "Do you think...could you...?" He gestured vaguely at himself, not sure how to ask.

"Of course." Gerald's mouth curved wryly. "My pleasure."

A moment later -- cleaned, pressed, pure as virgin snow in an extremely figurative sense -- Damien buttoned his shirt, laced himself up, and pulled on the cloak Gerald had laid out for that purpose. It was deep green, soft wool trimmed with gold. Warm.

He joined Gerald, dropping down beside him. It was even warmer here, heat from the flames and Gerald's eyes baking into him. "I suppose you have some sort of plan," Damien said, staring into the fire. "Where do you intend to start looking?"

"Where do I always start?"

Damien dropped his head into his hands. "The Iezu," he said, not even remotely surprised. "It won't work, you know. Karril has retired from public life, as far as we're concerned."

Damien had tried to reach him repeatedly, with no success. He'd wanted to talk to him, to hear another living voice speak Gerald Tarrant's name out loud, but the spirit of neutrality had impressed itself firmly upon Karril in this new world and he cherished it with all the fervor of the freshly converted. When Damien had exhausted every avenue short of worshipping Karril as his god, he surrendered to the inevitable and searched elsewhere for answers to the riddles of his new, trackless life.

"Karril is not my only acquaintance among that kind," Gerald said. His eyes slid away when Damien tried to meet them; it raised Damien's hackles and set his teeth on edge.

"Don't tell me," he groaned. "I beg you. Don't even say it."

Gerald's eyes flickered with amusement; it seemed to Damien that he very nearly smiled.

"You can't be serious. For God's sake, Gerald! Whatever it is, whatever he is, he's got to be severely deranged. Surely you can see that!"

"We can't know for certain what part of me the Mother of the Iezu might have borrowed for my...offspring."

"We can certainly tell it's not any of the good parts!"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Gerald said wryly.

Damien shut his eyes, and counted backward from ten. It didn't help. Not in the slightest. "All right," he said helplessly. Resigned. "You win. I'm recruited. When do we leave?"

In the light from the fire, Gerald's eyes gleamed with unfamiliar warmth. "You'll come with me, then." He looked away, brushing a lock of hair back from his face with fingers that almost seemed to tremble. "You're sure?"

"It's traditional, under these circumstances, to meet the family." Damien smiled, and reached out -- to touch, to feel Gerald's warmth against his skin. The bond between them -- a constant, low hum in the back of Damien's mind since he'd awakened -- flared to sudden, violent life.

"You are sure." Gerald's voice was strong with new conviction; his hand closed on Damien's, and did not let go.

"I don't really have anything better to do." Damien shrugged, and his smile widened into a grin. "Besides. In all the world...where else would I go?"


End file.
